We Are Us

Chapter 12 Worthington University

Fall Semester, Freshman Year

Buoyed by the tequila buzz warming my blood and the cold autumn breeze at my back, I’m feeling excited about this unexpected turn of events. My first party.

A fraternity party, to boot.

Tonight will be a good night. Maybe even a fresh start.

This is what I’ve been missing. Not Gavin.

College life. Parties. Hanging out with friends.

Well… Wren, Tucker, and Sully aren’t my friends. But maybe tonight I’ll meet someone who will be.

It’s about a fifteen-minute walk from our freshman dorm to the row of fraternity houses on The Hill, and we head straight to the one with lights and music blaring. Two kegs are set up behind it and within minutes I’m holding a beer. I like beer about as much as I like tequila. But it’s comforting to hold on to something—even if that something is a red Solo cup.

Sully lingers by the kegs and I follow Wren and Tucker inside, where the press of too many bodies crammed into a narrow, low-ceilinged space makes the house hot and humid. Jackets and sweatshirts are piled on a couch pushed up against a wall, and a guy wearing medical scrubs works the room, doling out “shots” of Jägermeister.

“Want one?” Tucker asks.

I grimace. “Isn’t that the stuff that tastes like black licorice?”

“It’s fucking awesome,” Scrubs yells, holding the bottle over my head until I tilt it back. I almost fall, but Tucker steadies me with an arm around my waist. I hate black licorice and the mouthful makes me want to gag. I manage to swallow it, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand in the hopes of erasing the horrible taste. It doesn’t work.

Scrubs moves on to his next “patient” and I frown at Tucker. “Where’s your shot?”

He lets go of me and grins. “I hate black licorice.”

I should be mad at him. Or at least a

But I am so tired of feeling.

Mad. Sad. A

Feeling sucks.

It’s painful, and pointless.

I find myself instinctively reaching for the pendant that sits just inside the hollow of my collarbone, sweeping my thumb over the smooth moonstone like a talisman.

Tucker notices. “What is that?” he asks, peering closer to get a better look, his fingertips brushing mine as he takes the necklace from my grasp.

“It—it was a gift.” I stumble over my words, taken aback by his interest. And his closeness.

Tucker’s face is just inches from mine, his dark gaze scrutinizing first my pendant, then me. “From that guy? Your boyfriend?”

I can’t move away. If I do, the delicate chain will snap. I manage a shallow nod. “Yes.”

He finally lets go, straightening to his full height. “You said he left you. Why are you still wearing it?”

I blink in surprise. Why am I still wearing it? How could I possibly take off Gavin’s necklace? The moonstone represents June, the month he was born. It’s like having a piece of him with me at all times. I hate not having it around my neck when I shower, but to just stop wearing it altogether… No. Just, no.

A memory flashes in my mind. The day Gavin and I hiked to the cemetery just beyond the northeast corner of the preserve, to check out the gravestones dating back to the Civil War. It had been a bright, su

The pain that shuddered through me had nothing to do with my scraped knee, and Gavin had dropped to my side, his face a mask of concern. He took one look at my wet eyes and trembling chin and pulled me into his arms, kissing away my tears. And later, when he noticed me limping, he got down on bended knees, pulled me onto his back, and with my hands wrapped around his neck and my ankles crossed at his waist, he whistled the sweetest, saddest melody as he carried me home.

“I love him. And one day, he’ll come back.” I’m not sure if it’s the alcohol talking, but in this moment I’m certain my answer is the truth. One day, Gavin will come back to me.

Tucker’s expression is indecipherable. “He’s a lucky guy.”

“No,” I blink away the memory even as the haunting echo of it swirls inside my ears, “I’m a lucky girl.”

A shadow falls over Tucker’s face. It’s Sully, being dragged by an irritated-looking Wren. “Poppy, entertain Sully,” she orders, then reaches for Tucker’s arm. “Come on, Tuck. I want to dance.”

“Time for a refill,” Sully says, tilting his empty cup toward me as if I need verification. “Want to come with me?”

I glance back toward Tucker but my eyes find Wren instead. She is at the fringes of the dance floor, a small disco light flashing pink and blue from the ceiling above her head. When she meets my gaze, not even the spastic lighting can disguise her triumphant expression.

“Sure.” I join Sully outside, the transition from sweaty hothouse to frostbitten tundra making my head swim. He catches me as I stumble on the steps. “You okay there?”

I brush him off. “Someone spilled beer, just a little slippery is all.”

“You sure? Wren told me to take care of you—I can’t have you falling and cracking your head.”

More like, she told you to get me out of her way.

He refills his cup from the keg and then I follow Sully back into the house, where he heads to the basement. A speaker near the stairs pumps in the same music as on the main floor but it isn’t nearly as crowded. Another set of inebriated undergrads are playing beer pong and flip cup, and in the corner, a few girls are stirring the contents of a lobster pot with a metal spatula, the kind used to flip burgers on a grill.

I eye the empty Crystal Light canisters and fine yellow powder dusting the countertop behind them with relief. Lemonade is exactly what I need. Anything that doesn’t have alcohol.

“Can I have some of that?” I pour out my beer into a garbage can.

“We’ve got ourselves a guinea pig!” one of them chirps, grabbing my cup and dunking it into the mixture. She hands it back to me, still dripping. “Tell us, is it too strong?”

I prepare myself for the overwhelming taste of sweetener, but it’s not nearly as noticeable as I would have thought. “It’s good. Thanks.” I take another sip. “What else is in this?”

“Just Everclear and ice,” she says, lifting her own Solo cup.

Everclear? Is that a new energy drink I haven’t heard of yet? I take another sip. It doesn’t taste like alcohol, but it doesn’t taste like a soft drink either. Whatever it is, it has to be better than straight shots.

I walk back toward Sully, who has migrated from the ping-pong table to a dartboard. By the time I’ve finished half the cup, I’m leaning against the nearest wall.

One of Sully’s darts flies smoothly through the air, jutting out dead center. Scott hikes a fist in the air. “Yeah-ah! Bull’s-eye!”

I squint at the dartboard, the colored circles moving in front of my eyes.

Jesus, Poppy. Pull yourself together.

The girl who gave me my lemonade saunters over, ru